


Earth Bound and Ground

by Roughnight



Series: You. Me. Everything Else Is Irrelevant. [7]
Category: Mass Effect, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Loop, M/M, Mass Effect Races, Planes Jump, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-27
Updated: 2014-03-08
Packaged: 2018-01-10 07:12:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1156643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roughnight/pseuds/Roughnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>.</p>
<p>Anytime now…, he pleaded patiently as he stared ahead at the imposing metal door that kept him locked up and separated him from the ensuing echoes of destruction. My man’s serenade, he mused.</p>
<p>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> .
> 
> Hello. This is still unbeta'd. Forgive me. ^^
> 
> .

 

 

 

If he was asked about it, John would confess that he wasn’t truly surprised at the symphony of explosions, crashes and gunshots that tore at the silence of the night. He closed his eyes. Deep down and somewhere at the recesses of his mind, he had been expecting the arrival of Khan Noo Nien Singh. What it meant that the galactic master criminal came for him, he did not want to ponder about at the moment. It didn’t truly matter—at least, not when John was aware that he ought to be more concerned about the fact that he had breathed a quiet sigh of relief with the first signs of commotions. The hot and gripping rush of relief that flowed from his chest was undeniable; the air seared a line within his throat and touched at his lips before it mixed with the atmosphere. There was a coiling snake inside his ribs, constricting his already swelling heart. It was unholy. It broke anything that was left sacred within him. With the unmistakable sound of the bombing somewhere outside the wing where he was being kept came the unbidden brush with the memories of Khan’s strong, possessive lips and his powerful limbs that could’ve broken John’s bones but instead wrapped around him, demanding and unrelenting. John let out a resigned groan. Something must be truly wrong with him.

 

There was another deafening roar of explosion, this time nearer. The ground shook with the force. It was a compelling serenade to John’s ears. John felt like the maiden he was at the receiving end of Khan’s murderous courtship. Somewhere outside the door in front of him, Khan was sending his invitation to join him. The ex-army doctor stood from the bedsit he had been sitting on and leisurely stretched his legs. He’d better come then. He’d better answer. There was nothing else for him to do—not when Khan called. Thinking back, he had always sucked at ignoring Sherlock when the latter summoned him, throwing aside any other engagement he previously had in favor of answering the other man’s call. John’s eyelids fluttered shut at the memory. Contrary to what other people would believe (and now even other species), there was nothing emasculating about it…

_/There was no way he would fail to answer Khan Noo Nien Singh’s calls…/_

 

The emergency horn churned and echoed along the walls as the lights flashed red on the ceilings.

 

\--Not when Sherlock also answered John’s calls when it truly mattered. And now Khan came for him. _Came. For. Him_. If that did not mean that the man answered John’s beckons, then everyone deserves a mass genocide. With no one to see, John allowed a satisfied grin to grace the edge of his lips. He did not know he had been wishing for the galactic criminal to come back to him but apparently, the most honest part of him did, the part buried the deepest. It was almost astounding how he already missed Khan when they had been together merely just some hours ago. It was almost overwhelming, the consuming desire to see the other man, the building anticipation at his very core.

 

This. This was better that a bloody fairytale. An ex-Starfleet-officer-turned mass murderer falling gravely for another man who was responsible for a multi-species mass genocide—John would bet that his previous therapist Ella couldn’t have predicted this.

 

_Anytime now…,_ he pleaded patiently as he stared ahead at the imposing metal door that kept him locked up and separated him from the ensuing echoes of destruction. _My man’s serenade_ , he mused.

 

It wouldn’t do for Khan to think that John wasn’t answering his calls now of all times. He certainly wouldn’t be a distressed damsel in need of rescuing. He wouldn’t be someone who was just all weight. He fisted his hands and dug his nails at the balls of his palms at the unbidden memory of Sherlock falling off the roof of St. Barts, of the sheer helplessness and utter despair that gripped his soul back then, the same despair that hung above his head still. He was now a living remnant of who he had previously been. He was the tattered remains and broken version of a man who now hungered for life embodied in a certain superhuman criminal.

 

**_Never again_.**

 

The sound of the electronic lock springing open was loud amidst the sounds of chaos from outside. _‘Good girl, Liara’_ , John thought, because of course, it stood to reason that his Asari friend would have a role to play in the sequence of events. No one should ever disregard the influence of the Shadow Broker whose hands could touch all that she desired. If Khan was masquerading freely as the perfect tool for mass destruction in the facility, or perhaps in the whole Citadel, then he wasn’t killed by Liara—not that Liara would do so, considering her knowledge of John’s irrational but intimate predilection towards the man… but if the Asari did not hand Khan over to the authorities, then there was only one option left for the Asari and that would be to make the most of her newly gained status as the accomplice of the galactic mass murderer, Khan. That Khan would in turn kill the Asari was something John never really placed his bets on. Sherlock or Khan—they do not destroy all things that would be considered interesting and if Liara’s Mind Melding abilities or her Shadow Broker Status did not qualify as such, her insights to John’s mind certainly was.

 

It was yet another thing that John learned after the whole time travel ordeal: One should not idle around, especially not when what you desire was staring you right at your face. It was the same mentality that he braced whole heartedly when he decided to rescue Khan Noo Nien Singh from the USG Ishimura. It was supposed to be his last blast, his last rush of adrenaline, his last attempt to reclaim what was lost. Knowing about Khan’s past transgressions and criminal deeds gave John one ultimatum: If Khan did not kill him at first sight, it meant he had a shot in convincing the other man to keep him for some time and if Khan did not kill him within 24 hours, then there was a good chance that Khan found him interesting enough to keep.

 

That Khan came back for him at the risk of wasting all the efforts and fucking up the chance to get to Planet Elcor was something John did not allow himself to think about. He’d think about it much, much later, after he’d reconciled with himself how much he was gripped by such utter terror that he might never see Khan again. Even if that was the endgame—even if there was no other way that things would end up otherwise—where Khan gets back his crew and loses his use for John and where John finally transcends down the Circles of Hell, there was no denying the raw desperation and agony that clawed at his chest at the prospect of losing the man. He now needed Khan.

 

He stepped out of his cell and into the hallway that led to the main corridor of the floor. Around him, some imprisoned Batarians, Turians and Vorchas were already shuffling around and fleeing. Liara really did a fine job and John appreciated the gesture. It must eat at the Asari, assisting this criminal activity. John knew how much Liara valued morals and justice. Whether that was an influence of her Shadow Broker status or a display of loyalty for John, the latter didn’t truly know. What John knew, however, was that there was truly no escaping the double edged knife of the Mind Melding. John was broken, his moral compass loose and if that tainted Liara in some way during their mental handshake, then it was just another burden that John would have to carry on his conscience. The more prisoners that got free, the more chances for subterfuge and for John to slip away among the confusion. Liara was very crafty.

 

John took his time, carefully trudging along the path, behind the running prisoners. The air was covered by light dust, debris clattered the floors and the walls had their fair share of damage and battering. Somebody crept behind him. John whipped around, arms shooting out ahead of him and hands gripping tightly at someone’s neck. He hit the stranger’s knee with his heels and threw him down against the wall.

 

Another human. Prisoner, too, by the generic jumper he was wearing. The man pleaded and moaned and murmured some excuses that John didn’t really hear. He stared coolly at the other man. He was a risk, a liability. John didn’t really appreciate people creeping at him. He spared the other prisoner a glance before hitting him somewhere behind his neck and rendering him unconscious. John was already walking ahead even before the man’s head hit the floor.

 

John’s heart soared like a butterfly the moment he reached the main corridor. There stood the slender form of Khan, graceful and threatening as he pushed a Batarian against the nearest wall and repeatedly bashed the organic’s skull against the concrete. At the floor, surrounding them were the bodies of the prisoners who were fleeing ahead of John.

 

John pursed his lips. Really, it wasn’t necessary to dispose of the others. They were as much as victims. But John wasn’t really in a position to speak of morality—not when he was hypnotized by the scent of aggressiveness that was rolling off of Khan’s skin and by the low, animalistic snarl that escaped the man’s luscious lips. John’s throat suddenly felt dry. He felt like a puppet pulled at his strings towards the vicious man who was still continuously ignoring his presence, preoccupied with painting the wall red. The sane part in John’s mind fervently wished that Liara wasn’t seeing this. Khan was an adorable cannon ball.

 

Khan froze when John was just an arm’s length away from him. He let the Batarian slump down as he quietly turned and for the first time laid eyes at the doctor. Khan smiled that precious smile of his at John. It was something that looked peculiar, sweet and threatening at the same time. His lips curved narrowly upwards and his eyes crinkled and gleamed unnaturally, gleeful.

 

_“John.”_ Khan breathed. And John heard a _‘finally’_ and a _‘there you are’_ along the echoes of his name.

 

“Khan.” John whispered which sounded like a croak. Khan steadily swept his eyes all over John’s form. The ex-army doctor shuddered involuntarily.

 

“What took you so long?” Khan drawled gently and disapproving at the same time—the mocking parody of a prince.

 

“I could say the same.” John said, indicating the number of creatures that littered the floor, with a raised brow. “You’ve been busy.”

 

Khan grinned delightedly. “I’ve been bored.” Like it was the most plausible explanation.

 

It probably was.

 

Then John was suddenly smiling a careless smile, the one that brightened his face and stretched his cheeks from ear to ear, because Khan was impossible and this was awfully familiar and John just felt swamped and suffocated at the same time. Khan saw the curve of his lips and the space between them was existent no more as the taller man lunged towards him so swiftly John didn’t even see him move. Then Khan was plastered against him, all limbs wrapping around him securely and nails digging painfully at the base of his nape. John was lost. He was but a bundle of nerves as he was mauled over, bitten, scratched, pulled and pushed and there was nothing for him to do but surrender from the onslaught.

 

It ended as quickly as it had begun. Khan peeled himself off of John, reached for something tucked at his back then handed John a generic hand gun issued among the Citadel Security forces. John took it gratefully, savored the comforting and familiar  
weight against his palm, looked up and saw Khan staring seriously at him.

 

“Stay right behind me.”

 

John snorted. “I know this place better than you.”

 

“Don’t be a moron. The Alliance is already surrounding the building,” Khan said gravely. “We’ll make another exit.”

 

John looked quizzically at him.

 

“That’s why I told you not to be stupid.” Khan drawled irritably. “Everything’s planned out already.”

 

With that, Khan turned and finally pushed ahead. John followed, feeling relieved at seeing Khan’s back ahead of him. This was how things should always be, with Khan within his field of vision. Ahead of him, Khan destroyed the threats that they crossed paths with while John watched the man’s back and sides amongst other things. Those bloody Turian C-Secs could be annoyingly swift and good at stealth at times. John would know. He trained with them, after all.

 

They finally entered a small room. It was a private office, a small one for a lowly officer by the looks of it. It was a curious exit especially when they could get trapped just as easily. But Khan surged forwards confidently and leisurely and John knew never to doubt the path especially when it was told by the Shadow Broker. Khan placed something against the far wall. John knew what it was without seeing it.  The taller man then quietly walked back towards him and loomed over him until finally their skins were touching and he could feel Khan’s hot breath on his face. When every inch of John that could be covered was covered by Khan’s lanky form, John heard the unmistakable sound of the Omni Tool being activated. He could feel the movement of Khan’s limb muscles twitch as the other man presumably entered the codes.

 

The walls exploded and crumbled. John was protected by the dust. All he smelled all the while was the strong masculine scent of Khan’s sweat and the coppery tinge of blood from a multitude of species.

 

It was glorious.

 

It lit him up from the inside.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> .
> 
> Torn but was held together, that was Khan Noo Nien Singh’s man.
> 
> .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .
> 
> Just Khan's POV.
> 
> .  
> Yup, this chapter is still unbeta’d. I send my apologies in advance for the mistakes you’ll encounter. 
> 
> Real sorry… I’m not in the right mind nowadays and it’s a struggle squeezing the time to write. I hope I can improve on my writing a lot faster… but alas… I’d opted in finishing the chaps before taking up the time for improving writing styles. Really, Johnlock is my salvation (from all the Earthly woes) and my stress reliever…
> 
> Thanks for your patience!  
> .
> 
>  
> 
> Khan/John pic in this chapter is courtesy of Nofavrell. Thanks soo much for your wonderful art. Love it! You're the best!

 

 

 

 

 

_Sweet dreams are made of this;_

_Who am I to disagree?_

_~*~*~_

Khan was built for this. He was engineered for violence, melodramatic massacre, grandiose display of superiority and cutting ruthlessness. He missed this. He was almost caught by surprise, how much more powerful this made him feel than he actually was. _Almost._ He reckoned that this was how it would have felt to anyone who for the first time got the limb he had lost instantaneously reattached whilst he was looking the other way. The surge of power! He had unknowingly lost his entrails and had suddenly stumbled upon them by accident. Khan felt ridiculously charged as if he had been plugged to a power source as strong as a bursting star. He was a synthetic finally opening his eyes for the first time and gaining self-sufficiency, becoming sentient, receiving independence. Finally, he was in his element, the viciousness rolling off of him in waves.

 

The thirst for cruelty— _the homicidal kind_ — was never gone. It could never really separate itself from him but it had been quietly ignored and subconsciously controlled. It was always simmering inside his veins and tearing him at the seams but they were just that—carefully _regulated_.

 

Now though, he was deeply conscious of it. He wore it on his skin. His blood burns and his lungs flutter in butterflies of laughter.

 

Holding the limp body of the Batarian high against the wall by the creature’s ugly and fragile neck, Khan honestly wondered how he had gone days with such civility. How had he not missed this? As the Batarian feebly struggled against his hold, legs kicking but never hitting Khan, and as Khan, in turn, reciprocated the creature’s effort just as enthusiastically by bashing the victim’s head against the wall repeatedly, the answer came to him.

 

_/‘Because there had been no need for it.’/_

 

He had found no need for cruelty and murder— _oh, he had at some point desired to strangle John Watson and maybe he could have killed the man if his body hadn’t betrayed him_. He had no reason to be bored. He had been entertained, frustrated and thoroughly _preoccupied_.

 

Much of Khan’s homicidal tendencies were irrationally rational. He operated on instinct and drive. He did things because he could and because they would serve his purpose. Really, there wasn’t anything anyone could blame him for _._ No one would dare. He was an impatient man. He wasn’t one to endure, and even when he was forced to, he would do everything in his power to avenge his plight a thousand times more. Securing a form of retribution he saw fit used to be Khan’s favorite past time. His eyes crinkled at the sweet memory of the previous Starfleet Admiral who had died on his palms quite literally. He would forever remember the panic and grim defeat on the poor human’s face and savor the man’s last breath as his life was snuffed out like a wisp of smoke.

 

Even when he engaged eagerly in activities motivated by his basal nature and even when he let his instincts take over most of the time, he was always calculating. Very few in the matters he had willingly participated in were personal. It wasn’t even as if he cared much. He just commonly disliked other sentient beings. It was just a fact that should be established in the entire universe. He could not be blamed for having taste.

_/ ‘There had been no need for it.’ /_

 

There would have been no point in killing John unlike the organics that now lay dead on the concrete floor.

 

This was even a drivel, now. That Khan would be bored of these killing was no mystery. The C-Sec officers offered no real challenge, not when they operated based on the same drills they have apparently trained in. The escaped prisoners, however, were different—they presented more fun and a better form of amusement for him. They were desperate and a little bit over excited and they came from all over the galaxy which ensured that they were a little less predictable than the C-Sec. Khan looked at the motionless creature in his hand and at the blood painted on the wall. The color was hypnotizing. He sniffed disdainfully at the sharp scent of blood in the air. That was one thing all the races have in common: their blood all smell the same.

 

Khan grimaced. This was a total waste of time. He was doing leg work that could have been accomplished in more creative ways, say, like setting the whole Citadel on fire, destroying its gravitational axis or setting a virus on the program that maintained the level of oxygen for the organics. (Khan did not mind leaving the sentient synthetics alone as long as they did not post any hindrance to his goals. After all, AI’s are much more interesting and intelligent.) It was not necessary to deal with the organics individually. While Khan did enjoy the killings, every second that passed also meant that much longer that he had to delay the acquisition of his crew. It really was tedious, pretending to commit to his side of the bargain that was forced out of him by the Asari Shadow Broker.

 

_/ ‘You don’t get to inflict mass genocide for a century after you get your crew.’ /_

 

No vengeance for a century. ‘That really was tedious. John Watson seemed to have a rather interesting bunch of organic friends in his life,’ Khan thought wryly. They know how to take advantage out of making deals.

 

As he wrecked havoc, it was not lost on him that he was actually on a mission to break John Watson out of this Citadel Security building. As should be expected though, the ex-army doctor never failed in dictating his own terms in everything that he thought he could help with.

 

Khan smelled him before he heard the now familiar footsteps. He smelled the unique, pleasant and manly scent of John Watson. The steady arm that held the Batarian’s body against the wall faltered and then tensed. His fingers loosened involuntarily and released the victim. A part of him sighed in relief at finally, _finally_ , getting reunited with John while the other part, the part that was still sore over all the revelations from the other man, raised its hackles violently. Pivoting around on the heels of his feet, Khan turned and flashed the ex-army doctor a smile—the one that did not bother with deceptions. It was the right smile, _unfiltered_. It felt awkward and weird on Khan’s face. His muscles weren’t made for certain expressions, apparently, but they twitched on their own before Khan’s brain caught up and fired signals. _Traitor!_ Nevertheless, it was a fitting smile. John Watson, after all, should know how he truly pissed Khan off. Every sentient being, be it organic or synthetic, who has ever heard of the galactic criminal’s name understood that it did not bode well to get on Khan’s nerves. There was no reason John should be obtuse about it. There was no reason John should not understand the extent of punishment Khan’s insides were itching to inflict on him.

 

They engaged in some sort of conversation, half of which Khan didn’t really pay attention to when he was busy cataloguing any minute changes he could find from John’s person, all the tantalizing details that told of the activities the other man had been up to. There was a steady hum somewhere near Khan’s ears and his heart seemed to beat a little bit excitedly. He wanted to pounce, wanted to round on the other man and consume him. He ached and he wanted to hurt. He wanted to kill. He wanted to rub his skin all over the other man. He was frozen and struck with a thousand violent ideas that he was practically paralyzed. But then John Watson smiled and his face brightened _and really_ , the choice wasn’t Khan’s at all. He was an animal drawn in by the doctor-soldier’s tantalizing scent as he prowled over John—a predator beckoned—and devoured John’s mouth, claiming, hurting, praising and punishing. All that is possible and impossible, all that is sweet and bitter, all that is tangible and not—all of them mattered no longer.

 

Khan was not an idiot. He could see the brokenness of the man since the very first day his eyes had laid upon him. Here in the crumbling building of the Citadel Security, he saw the cracks of the blonde’s moral compass—saw the lingering doubt and disapproval at the bodies that littered on the floor and decorated Khan’s feet. John almost looked like he wanted to cry and laugh at the same time. John Watson was fighting off the relief he probably inwardly felt, as if he was reluctant to express what Khan presumed was delight. His ex-army doctor looked deliciously out of his depth.

 

Khan felt the warm surge of thrill in his veins.

 

 

Khan would bet that the other man was not aware of his torn expression. That even when John was thinking of dreadful things and embracing sinful deeds, somehow, somewhere, the person that he was before this whole time travelling affair happened remained existent. It was untouchable and it was perhaps what attracted Khan in the first place. There was something incorruptible inside John Watson.

 

_Torn but was held together, that was Khan Noo Nien Singh’s man._

 

Then, somehow in the span of a breath, John Watson had managed to put a foot down and squash all of the doubts away. He had made a decision so swiftly, batted all the other options away. He had swallowed the thorns and chosen Khan. The smile freely given, wide and spontaneous and wild, gripped at Khan’s chest. That was all Khan’s. The smile brightened the doctor’s face like the sun. Khan didn’t know what it was that made the other man smile. He had to think back on the words his mouth apparently fired. It was something about being bored.

 

The ravishing that followed was John Watson’s fault.

 

The kiss that followed was brief but all that could be employed were employed: teeth, tongues, lips, jawbones, palates, tonsils. Every patch of his skin that wasn’t in contact with John ached while everything that touched burned. There was nothing rational about this. He even doubted the practicality of this reckless fondness for this human.

 

But he couldn’t care less. Such was the perks of being on top of the bloody food chain and Khan would ensure to keep it that way, that he remains unchallenged for all eternity.

 

That Khan was a mass murderer and a notorious galactic criminal did not mean that he was not a gentleman. The burning Citadel Security building was hardly the place for what he had in mind. He did not do sharing very well. He would make the man tremble and cry. John Watson would beg for mercy and fall apart under Khan’s mouth but these were all going to happen at the right time and place. Khan feared that he might break the deal with the Shadow Broker, Liara, if they were interrupted by the C-Sec officers and blow the whole Citadel to smithereens in retaliation. He had to be especially careful still when he had his crew to worry about and acquire, had to sustain his fragile relationship with the Asari. While he already knew the location of his crew which was the Planet Elcor, it would do not to underestimate the position and influence of the Shadow Broker.

 

He was tempted to chew off John’s lips as the latter bumbled about leading the way out of the building. The ex-army doctor could be adorably stupid at times. And so Khan led the way to the exit. They were going to bomb their way through.

 

It felt wonderful, feeling John’s warm breaths on his chest as he covered the shorter man from the explosion. Khan felt the wave of hot air on his back and all he could smell was the delicious smell of the golden strands in front of his nose.

 

It was all he could do not to drag the beautiful time traveler man into the awaiting hover craft on the other side of the wall.

 

He had come to like the idea of John Watson following him willingly.

 

It was as it should be.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .
> 
> If you want to check Nofavrell's works... :) 
> 
> http://s108.photobucket.com/user/gaylord01/media/respite_by_nofavrell-d77i41h.jpg.html?sort=3&o=0


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> .
> 
> This indulgence was his salvation as was his end. A reprieve after the three years he spent in limbo—because his life really just moved on that forsaken day that he had opened Khan’s cryogenic tube, seeing him for the first time.  
> .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .
> 
> As was before, my neck is yours. I really didn’t want to drag the story any longer. I do pray that this is tolerable at best.
> 
> .

 

 

~*~*~

_I am comfortably numb._

~*~*~

 

 

 _The thing was_ , John thought, if his initial reaction upon finally reuniting with Khan Noo Nien Singh after some measly hours of separation was to snog the man senseless, bloodied and all as if his life depended on it, then he wouldn’t want to know how he’d react if the man had not come back for him. He would probably have killed himself or blown up the whole Citadel just to ensure that the galactic criminal could pursue his cryo-sleeping-crew with the least resistance. John couldn’t do anything about the Alliance, he was dead sure Liara would have broken off whatever deal she had with him if she so much as heard any inclination of hurting the Alliance. _Shepard’s bloody Alliance_. Liara would have flayed him alive herself if he targeted the Earth’s forces.

 

Whatever this was that he and Khan were engaged in, it wasn’t simply rough. It was carnal and vicious. They were tearing into each other’s skin. They were colliding into each other in all the wrong ways.

 

This was murder.

 

“You infuriate me.” Khan said roughly as he dragged his canines against the skin above John’s carotid.

 

“I know.”

 

“You’re mine.” The super human criminal said as he leeched off the blood where his mouth touched.

 

“No, I’m not.” John answered as a matter-of-factly because he could. _Because he wasn’t certain. Because he couldn’t really make a decision when the oxygen in his body was being sucked by another mouth._

 

Khan’s reply was to shove him. He was yanked by his left shoulder, whipped around and pushed against the steel cold inner wall of the hover craft in quick succession. A hand pushed somewhere at the base of his skull, flattening his face, crashing the side of his nose, and then he felt the other man’s body tower over and against him, enveloping him in a searing heat, enclosing him and trapping him. He wasn’t being given a choice, apparently.

 

And wasn’t John Watson thankful about it, that the choice wasn’t his? Frankly, while he was fed up with everything and everyone else taking the decision away from him, this was something he would gladly hand over to the galactic criminal—to the very man who was now saved from the cryogenic imprisonment _because_ John had made his choice. He was John’s rebellion, the living breathing personification of John’s choice. The universe could fuck him over again and strip him of everything but it was all too late now. No matter what happens, Khan would forever be a part of John. Khan wasn’t someone fate could simply move away, not without bleeding half of the universe by genocide.

 

At the back of his mind, John wondered if perhaps, maybe, he had gone insane. The precious seconds that he had allowed his eyes to flutter shut as Khan kissed the living daylights out of him, he thought of Sherlock in the low rumbles that vibrated from the other man’s chest. The low, velvety and all demanding melody of that voice couldn’t really belong to anyone else, could it? For a moment, Sherlock was with him, whispering sweet nothings. John had to wonder about all that he had lost that at one point were his to gain. All those memories that seemed so distant now, the happiness and pain he felt about them were unbearably tortuous. He was lost in the past for the briefest of seconds. The illusion was shattered when cruel teeth sank on his shoulder mercilessly, drawing blood, then all he could think about was Khan. Khan who was brutal and passionate and who was chewing his flesh off to ground John with him... _Selfish, self-centered prick_. John opened his eyes and saw nothing, remembered that he was plastered against the wall like some captive while his master mauled him from behind.

 

“I am not him!” Khan snarled against his ear as hands roamed under his shirt, exploring the expanse of his flesh. “Technically and perhaps biologically, your dear friend Sherlock and I are one but it would do you good to remember that I am not him. I, for one, am not an idiot who would throw myself off some filthy roof. You cannot rid of me unless I wanted to.”

 

And frankly, that would never happen.

 

“I didn’t want to rid of Sherlock,” John grumbled, half irritated at the wrong implication. “And while you don’t jump off roofs, you did throw the chance of getting to the Planet Elcor with the least resistance from your enemies by coming back to the Citadel. Truthfully, I couldn’t decide which one was more stupid. You’re an idiot.”

 

John didn’t hear an inhale of breath but he did feel Khan go still behind him.

 

Then much to the ex-army doctor’s astonishment, he heard a harsh flutter of laughter from the taller man. Khan eased off of him and John took the cue to turn around and face him. Khan’s eyes glinted with amusement and the lines on his face were gentler than he’d seen earlier. The transition was fluid and unexpected. John felt his chest cavity constrict on his organs. Then the laughter faded off, the smile vanished and all that remained was an arrogant smirk tipping that delicious curve of his lips. John could not see pass that bow of lips. It was as if the whole world faded away, dominated by the man’s overbearing stillness.

 

The realization hit John like a lunging Krogan. The most striking difference between Khan and Sherlock was the _stillness_. It was what separated the two entities together. Sherlock was a mass of uncontrolled energy, always bouncing on his feet and fretting about, owning the quiet and the noise of and from the world. Khan was the opposite. He was steady and still and the few moments where he burst the bubble, his wrath and destruction were mostly cold, impersonal and controlled with unerring precision. He was the quiet and the noise. Sherlock was the sky that sent him shooting up from all that were dull and Khan was the gaping hole that sucked him to the ground.

  
“Were you worried?”

 

“Have you gone mad?” John parried, his brows frowning in confusion, not following Khan.

 

“You’re not the only one who can make deals, John.” Khan said lightly, eyes steady on him. “I have lost nothing and only gained some incentives.”

 

“I don’t understand.” He really didn’t. He had not paused to consider the options available and what sort of actions the other players on the field would engage in. He had reached the end of his plans. It should have ended right then and there—with Khan getting his crew back and John sending himself off to Hell. Apparently, the game had not ended yet and the ball bounced off. The ball was in Khan’s side of the court and John was now a mere passenger of the ride. He felt a little dizzy and perhaps a little giddy. The rush of adrenaline brought by the tantalizing attraction of the unknown should not have taken him by surprise. John had underestimated the depth of his desire. The desperate hope and the insatiable hunger that had sprung to life when he first found out about Khan Noo Nien Singh but had immediately buried deep inside him have resurfaced, gained control and have intensified tenfold.

 

He’d be glad not to end this. He’d be glad to drag this on.

 

“Don’t you always?” Khan drawled against his lips and John’s brain shut off as his body took over. It was probably a good thing that his mind surrendered because this wasn’t something his brain was required to attend to. He was never really good with multi-tasking to begin with. That was Sherlock’s expertise. If John had been given the time of the day to think, he’d probably fret about how he’d never done this with men, how he’d think about what Sherlock would’ve probably thought of his actions, how he was losing a part of himself by gaining back the shadows of what he had lost, how he was honestly just feeling numb about everything else when he was out of Khan’s radius and how he just genuinely wanted to let go and be taken, be consumed.

 

Be devoured.

 

This indulgence was his salvation as was his end. A reprieve after the three years he spent in limbo—because his life really just moved on that forsaken day that he had opened Khan’s cryogenic tube, seeing him for the first time.

 

Irrational panic gripped at his sanity at another realization. He had almost lost Khan, lost whatever hold he had of Sherlock all over again. The separation had been palpable and excruciating, a sheer reminder of everything worst he had experienced before. After all, in the three years that John had floated in space, lost and adrift, Khan Noo Nien Singh had been the light at the end of his tunnel. Vague and misguiding he may have been, perhaps, but Khan was still the only thing that resembled direction to whatever was left of John. He had endured the initial separation, had no qualms with the sacrifice he’d committed if it meant securing the galactic criminal’s end goals. He now wasn’t sure if he could do it again. Maybe he could but he sure as hell would not survive it.

 

John clung to Khan’s shoulder, wrapping his arms around the man’s nape, dragging the other entity impossibly closer until they were rutting into each other in the mad desire to bury themselves against each other’s flesh. There was no time to kindle the flame. They’ve got enough fire inside them—they have been burning for a long time now. They could just explode spontaneously and sear each other’s marks deep into the bones. The pain was welcomed; it was their confession, their written words. The world outside was a blur. Khan was the quiet and the noise. He overlapped onto John and the latter was only glad to pour whatever he had in him back. Their breaths mingled as was their breathy moans.

 

It wasn’t until each others’ names tore from one another’s throat that the world came rushing back at them. John held onto Khan, afraid of getting lost and swept off away yet again.

 


End file.
